Late in the evening, the scratch of a match caused Ollie to stir. He opened his eyes to see Lucien light the lantern, then quickly lower its wick to a dull glow. The monk pulled out his piece of bread, soaked it with water from the pitcher, and mushed it in his palm. Ollie thought it was rather late to be eating, not to mention that this was an odd way to prepare one’s food. As he was about to roll over, Lucien removed his mask, sending a shock through Ollie’s body.

Lucien’s lower jaw was not merely disfigured, it was missing. Shot off. At the place where his mouth should have been was a gaping hole. No tongue. A few useless teeth dangled from his upper jaw.

Ollie watched Lucien place a bit of bread into the hole, pick up the pitcher of water, and tilt back his head. Water gurgled into Lucien’s esophagus.

Ollie knew, from the copper mask, that Lucien was hiding injuries from the Great War. Perhaps burns. A maimed face. But he had never expected that someone could live with such horrific injuries. And suddenly, he realized that Lucien was likely removing his mask at the roadblocks, using his mangled face as a distraction. He recalled the soldier’s comment at the roadblock. My father’s army had good aim. Anger burned in Ollie’s belly.

Lucien inserted more bread paste. Wet burbles filled the cellar.

He quietly rolled over to allow Lucien his privacy and noticed Boar was awake, staring, his brow contorted in disbelief.

CHAPTER 49 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 49

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan placed her palm on Bertie’s forehead. The heat emanating from his skin caused her legs to weaken. I had a little bird, its name was Enza. She fumbled to open his medicine bottle, spilling sulfa pills on the floor.

Bertie, too frail to cover his mouth, expelled a wet cough. His handkerchief, like a soiled doily, lay on the side table.

I opened the window, and . . . Susan bit her lip, battling to mute the indelible chant inside her head. She scooped up the pills and placed one in his mouth. Her hand trembled as she lifted a glass of water to his lips.

Bertie gagged. Water dribbled down his chin. On his second attempt, he swallowed the medicine.

Susan stared at Bertie, too ill to sit up and confined to a makeshift bed on the sofa. She wished that more could be done. A miracle pill. Divine intervention. Something other than Dr. Collins’s daily visits to listen to Bertie’s chest. Each time Collins removed his stethoscope, he’d comment that the hospital beds were filled to capacity with trauma patients from London and that Bertie was better off at home to receive the individual care that he needed. The doctor’s intentions were good. But seeing Bertie’s declining state, she questioned his judgment. And she regretted that she hadn’t done more.